The life of a widow/writer on wheels.

Category Archives: Life

Picture this. You walk into your bathroom and notice a large centipede in your tub, frozen in place, perhaps because it senses you, but alive. What do you do?

Most people would smash the centipede with their shoe, pick it up with some toilet paper, and throw it in the toilet. That’s what I used to do.

Lately, however, my attitude towards bugs has changed, and no one is more surprised by this than I. That’s because I very strongly dislike things that scurry or buzz, especially in my house, but even outside. When I encounter one of these creepy-crawly-buzzing creatures I tend to react with the stereotypical “scream and jump on the nearest chair” routine, followed by the equally predictable “search and destroy” routine.

The only exception has been spiders. I don’t know if it’s a myth I once heard, or because I read Charlotte’s Web when I was a child, but I’ve always believed it’s bad luck to kill a spider.

I think the attitude shift towards the rest of the creepy-crawlies started after my late husband died. I remember going on a hike in the Santa monica mountains about four weeks after he died. It was ill-advised to attempt a hike – I was totally exhausted and didn’t make it very far.

I ended up sitting at a bench and just staring at the scenery – ducks in the water, flies and bumblebees buzzing around, a hummingbird making its way from flower to flower. At the time, I felt resentment, like why did these flies and bumblebees get to live and Kaz didn’t?

But over the years, I started marveling at anything to do with Nature, even bugs. I actually started feeling like we humans are the guests, and the bugs, plants, and animals are the hosts. Like it’s their planet. We’re just passing through.

When I moved from Los Angeles to rural upstate New York, the bugs and critters seemed more natural than people. I still screamed when I saw them in my house, but I hesitated before running after them with a can of bug spray. And I felt really bad when I killed one. That house had a mice problem, and the owner helped me put out traps and poison. One day I came home to a dead mouse floating in the toilet, which was beyond gross, but also sad. The mouse probably ate the poison and jumped into the toilet to relieve his thirst or pain. I felt terrible for it.

When I moved into my current house, I was relieved that it didn’t seem to have any major bug or rodent issues. Then, one winter’s day when all the windows were closed, a diamond-dhaped, flat, flying bug suddenly landed on my computer, seemingly out of nowhere. Normally, I would have killed it, but something told me not to.

I very gently picked the bug up with a tissue, opened the window to the freezing winter’s air, and threw it outside, wishing it luck.

I repeated this with about a dozen identical bugs (or a dozen times with the same bug, who knows) over the course of that first winter. After the third time, I decided to research the bug and learned that it was a Stink Bug, which are common in this area and relatively harmless.

Killing a Stink Bug releases… you guessed it… the Mother of all Stinks. So, my instinct to not kill it was correct.

Since then, I have felt less inclined to kill other bugs I come across. Which brings me back to the centipede.

A few weeks ago I saw this thing in my tub.

I immediately screamed and ran out of the bathroom, horrified and hyperventilating.

When I finally got up the nerve to re-enter the bathroom, I stood over the tub and inspected the centipede. My voice must have startled it, because now it was trying desperately to crawl out, but as soon as it got halfway up, it slid back down. It was definitely trapped.

Everything about this bug revolted me. But I simply couldn’t kill it. Which meant I had to get rid of it some other way.

First, I tried easing a piece of toilet paper under it, but the minute I got close, the damn thing started running so fast, it was almost on my finger before I knew what was happening. I screamed, dropped the toilet paper with the centipede, and ran out of the bathroom again.

A few minutes later, I returned with a New Yorker magazine.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” I said to the centipede. “I’m trying to save you.”

I took a deep breath, paused to open the window and the screen, then gently placed the New Yorker under the centipede. Once again it ran at lightening speed across the magazine, but I had *just* enough time to stand up and throw it and the New Yorker outside.

This same scenario happened with a black ant, as well as a spider. Apparently, my tub is a popular spot.

Then, of course, there was the squirrel who jumped in front of my car and which I quickly swerved to avoid hitting.

The deer that someone else hit, whose dead body on the side of the road caused me to burst into tears.

And the frogs.

Returning home from a friend’s house in the woods one rainy evening, my headlights picked up on movement on the road ahead. It was hundreds, if not thousands, of little frogs jumping in the middle of the road (this video shows a similar situation, though I was on a smaller country road).

It was too late to turn back, so I had to keep going… knowing that I was killing at least a few frogs. It was heartbreaking.

As was the other day when a bee stung me, and I realized that the bee would die.

Why am I telling you about these weird stories? I guess because I see a direct correlation between loss and life.

I was just trying to explain this to a friend the other day (and wasn’t terribly articulate about it). Losing people, and experiencing death up close, humbles you. Humbles me. To the point where I don’t look at any living creature in the same way. The centipede, bees, worms, snakes, rats, mice, you name it… call me a hippie, but I will spend a little more time to avoid them without harming them.

I experienced a Moment the other night, an emotional moment, in public. It was slightly alcohol-induced, but I wasn’t so inebriated that the room was spinning or I felt bad. On the contrary, I was in that sweet spot, tipsy and feeling wonderful. I had just completed a work project that took several weeks and a lot of energy, and had a successful, well-attended opening. People in town had seen me bleary-eyed and dressed in paint-splattered clothes for weeks, but this night I was wearing makeup and a brand new dress. I was feeling beautiful, proud, relieved, and as buoyant as if I were walking on air. If I’d had enough money, I would have bought everyone a round of drinks. Instead, I found myself standing next to a handsome stranger at the bar.

Now, in my little town, a handsome un-accompanied stranger whom you’ve never seen before is a rarity, especially on a Saturday night in your favorite watering hole, and especially when he’s carrying a large, football-sized conch. Yes, that’s right, he had a large conch, and I blew it at the bar. Very loudly. I think I surprised a few people with just how loudly I let it rip. Or maybe when I yelled “It’s like Yom Kippur in here!” afterwards, laughing hysterically.

I blew it a few more times before getting tired and handing it back to its owner, who looked both amused and impressed. Introductions, another drink, more conch blowing and conch talk, and then Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On came on the sound system. If you’ve never heard this song, I’ve added a link below. It’s one of those songs that makes you want to dance with someone. Well, for once, there was actually someone there, and, based on the few words we’d exchanged, I suspected that he knew and loved this song too. I reached for his hand and pulled him out of his chair to dance with me.

I don’t know how much of it was the song, the man, me, or the moment—but dancing together felt really damn good. It’s been a really long time since I’ve been that physically close to another person. And my instinct that he knew and loved the song was correct. He knew the words, he knew the rhythm, and he was feeling it. He danced like a gentleman, not grabby or grindy but holding my hand to his chest and his other arm around my waist. I closed my eyes and half-sang, half-hummed the song, feeling relaxed, not thinking about anything, just totally in the moment, enjoying Marvin’s voice, the words, the warmth of this man’s body and hands, the comfort of being able to put my head on his shoulder, feeling the yearning beautiful soul in that music. At some point near the end of the song, our faces brushed close to each other and we kissed. It was honestly the only way to end that dance to that song in that bar on that night.

As the song faded, we stopped and returned to the bar. And that’s when the Moment happened.

A powerful emotional wave started in my heart moved down to my stomach through my loins then rushed back up through my heart up to my brain, hitting the shores of my eyelids before plunging down and through the circuit all over again. I wasn’t crying, but my eyes welled up and tears fell down my cheeks, and I was absolutely powerless to stop them. I closed my eyes and focused, not on stopping the wave, but on feeling it, sweeping through me, rushing, sloshing this way and that… until the waters finally calmed.

When I opened my eyes again, I sensed the bartender and my friends, who were also at the bar and witnessed the moment, trying to hide their concern and respectfully give Mr. Conch, who also saw it, the chance to react first. He was standing right beside me, thankfully not looking panicked, but mildly concerned and curious. He smiled a friendly smile and rubbed my back gently. “Are you okay?” “Yes,” I said and wiped my eyes. Moments later, we were all laughing again.

I didn’t feel as embarrassed as I thought I would, having had such a moment in public in one of the few bars in my little town. As moments go, it was pretty mild. It’s not like I caused a scene. Just a few silent tears in the corner of the bar next to the espresso machine. I wondered if the other folks at the bar recognized that it had been a wave of grief and not just a moment of having too much to drink. I hoped everyone would forget about it the next day, and then decided I didn’t care. The moment had clearly been triggered by the dance and the kiss, both of which I thoroughly enjoyed. And therein lies the rub.

The heart is a muscle and, like any other muscle, it remembers long-stored emotions. Certain joys can actually trigger a more acute pain than sadness can. Sometimes I wonder if I am so tender inside that I will never be able to experience those emotions again without also feeling pangs of pain. Or maybe I’ll only feel pain for a short while, and the painful periods, and the time between them, will get shorter and shorter. All I know is I have been alone, without a partner, and nearly celibate for almost seven years. I am content being alone, and do not feel lacking or afraid of anything. But I’m still human, and like Marvin says, “We’re all sensitive people, with so much to give…”

There’s a part of me that feels so untouched and raw that it is almost innocent, washed clean, and yet it is also mature and strong. This is the part deep inside me that has developed within the dark pressures of grief, like a pearl nestled in the soft tissue of a shell, a butterfly just born and ready to fly.

I usually end the year with a post about what I’ve accomplished in the outgoing year, and what I hope to accomplish in the year to come. This year I really haven’t blogged much. I shared in shorter bursts on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, outlets that don’t require a lot of writing or deep thought, and saved what little writing time I had for my book, stealing moments here and there throughout the year.

I miss blogging very much.

Many things came between me and my writing this year. I should say, I allowed many things to come in between me and my writing. I was feeling down about it for a while, but have since come to the conclusion that this was a phase I had to go through. There were things that I wanted to do this year, and they took a lot of my time and energy.

I wanted to buy a house and establish a foundation.

I wanted to produce a successful event for work that people would remember.

I wanted to go to Israel, where I was born, where my mother is buried, where I have family and friends whom I haven’t seen in many years.

I toyed with the idea of adopting a second dog, and then did so on a whim during the busiest period of the year. I’ll post more about Gracie later. In the meantime, here she is (on left) with Ruby about four weeks after I adopted her.

I wanted to see a lot of art.

(Pictured are works by Louise Bourgeois, Ad Reinhardt, Ruth Asawa, and Kenny Scharf)

All these things I did, plus lots of hiking.

It was a productive year but not a writing year. In my free time, I mostly watched television, went out with friends or traveled, all good things to do but not conducive to writing.

The time has come to once and for all make writing a priority. I still have two part-time jobs, two dogs, many friends and responsibilities. But I’m changing how I approach life, how I see myself, and what I do in my free time. Starting with this weekend.

I signed off of social media and, after I publish this blog post, will be completely offline for the next three days. I’ll log in again on Tuesday morning. Save for one meeting at my house tomorrow morning, I have cleared my schedule for the entire weekend. I have no plans to go out New Years Eve. I will hike, but that’s how I clear my mind and get the dogs to sleep all afternoon.

I am sequestering myself not only to write, but also to think and get centered without the constant noise of life. There’s a coffee shop/bar just down the street, in case I get lonely. But I don’t think I will. I am craving quiet, alone time. Zero obligations and distractions. Minimal time in my car, on the phone, watching television. As a writer, this is how I get my head straight.

I’ll report back next week. Wishing you all a very Happy New Year, as well as a safe New Years Eve. See you on the other side. xoxo

I’ve been away from the blog for a while because all I wanted to write about was how stressful house-buying is, and I couldn’t put that out there publicly while the process was happening. Well, as of one week ago, that dilemma became mute. I am officially a homeowner! And it is nothing short of a miracle.

Financially, it squeezed everything I had and then some. Beyond that, it was a huge emotional life step, one that’s honestly still sinking in. I’ve never owned a house before. The prospect of owning one by myself is daunting, liberating, and bittersweet.

I so wish that Kaz was with me to enjoy this milestone and that we were buying it together. I also know that he is beaming with pride and joy to see me settled in a safe, secure environment, great community, and with a smart investment.

My hope is that owning this house won’t be a distraction, but rather a jumping off point for (literally) the next chapter of my life. I have to force myself to stick to that, but I feel confident that I can do it.

Part of what got me through the house-buying stress was editing and writing my book. I didn’t have the mental bandwith to also blog, but at least I wasn’t totally uncreative. Writing really helped keep me focused and steady during the ups and downs of the process, which were many. I just kept thinking, “everything is going to be okay.”

Loss is a beast. I’m not sure I’ll ever truly understand or be free of it.

I have felt somewhat distant from the losses I experienced earlier this year, partly because they both lived on the other side of the country. Partly because I’ve deliberately kept myself busy these last few months, with work mostly. It didn’t occur to me until just now, but I did the same thing after Kaz died.

Which is not to say that good things aren’t happening. All the hard work seems to have created some momentum.

I have been writing on my book, and it’s going really well.

I just started a new blog series for a large company – to be announced soon.

Ruby is healing beautifully and as beautiful as ever.

I am taking the first steps towards buying a house – finding out what I can afford and looking around my area. I hope to buy something toward the end of the year.

I have stopped eating meat and am trying to avoid dairy – the former a lot easier to do than the latter!

Things are going well at my PT gallery job.

I spent a very special weekend at a conference at West Point Military Academy recently, and am about to attend a prestigious writers’ conference in NYC.

I’ve made some wonderful new friends and connections.

Still, there is a layer of loneliness to life. This is more of an observation than a complaint. I don’t think it has to do with the rural area where I live. I see plenty of people through my job and social life.

No, there is loneliness because I am alone at home (other than the dog). It was a necessary cocoon, of sorts and not in a bad way, as I healed. Now I miss having another person around to share moments and conversations.

There is so much life still to live.

But it has to be the right person… someone who doesn’t need much, someone who is intelligent, intuitive and kind. Someone who has a good sense of humor, a passion for something, is artistic but not egotistical, talented but humble. Someone who understands what is important in life and isn’t afraid to live it.

Am I asking for the stars? I hope not. I used to think it impossible to meet someone as cool as Kaz. Now I feel more ready to accept what a friend once told me, “It won’t be the same. It will be different.” I also feel like I’ve learned the lessons I needed to learn, and I’m ready to apply them should I get the chance.

The idea of going on a dating site does not appeal to me in the least. I’d like to meet someone in an organic, no pressure kind of way.

It’s been 5 years since Kaz died. Strangely it feels both like yesterday and like a lifetime ago. I’m proud of how I’ve changed my life – moved across country, started a new career and a whole new social life.

What’s missing is a partner… and a house.

Not sure in which order they will come to me… but I am putting my desires out there into the universe.

Is there anyone out there who hasn’t heard of Elizabeth Gilbert? She wrote the book Eat Pray Love, is known for encouraging meditation, positive thinking and, for a while, she kept a happiness jar. Basically, every day she wrote down the happiest moment of her day on a scrap of paper “for even the horrible days have one least-bad moment.” I admit, the first time I heard of the happiness jar, I thought it sounded… corny.

Elizabeth Gilbert’s “happiness jar” (photo by Elizabeth Gilbert)

If I had a best-selling book, millions of dollars, a loving husband and multiple homes, I’d have a happiness warehouse. It was so much easier to think of things that were annoying/upsetting me, and all the things I didn’t have, rather than the things I did.

My attitude changed towards the end of last year. A job had run its course, freelancing was slow, and I was low on money. On top of that, my dog suddenly needed thousands of dollars in medical care. I felt myself on the brink of a panic attack on more than one occasion. But panic, I did not.

Instead, I set up a GoFundMe campaign, pitched a bunch of story ideas, took an online workshop in a more lucrative area of writing, networked more aggressively, updated my resumes and applied for jobs.

There was one job in particular that I wanted very much. I told myself that I would be okay if I didn’t get it, and mentally prepared myself for disappointment, but I never gave up hope.

To my surprise, donations started pouring in for Ruby’s surgery, and then, the day before Christmas, I found out that I got the job I wanted. I felt so overwhelming grateful that I decided to focus on gratitude for the rest of the year.

I remembered Elizabeth Gilbert’s happiness jar. What if I wrote down every day not my happiest moment, but something that I was grateful for? I pulled out a huge glass jar that I had bought at a flea market last year, cleaned it up and set it on my desk.

my gratitude jar

On January 1, I wrote my first gratitude note. It wasn’t very profound. I was grateful for my new haircut, and that so many people liked it on Facebook. In fact, a lot of my notes over the course of the month mentioned really random things: like finding two pairs of jeans that fit.

But almost every day, I wrote about being grateful for:

My family, friends and colleagues… including my freelance editors.

My dog… and the support that people showed to her/us regarding her surgery.

My home… which is warm and safe and quiet.

My new job… new co-workers, and the volunteers who help us.

Then a strange thing happened. As the month progressed, I started feeling more grateful, more often.

On January 9, I wrote: “It’s morning, so the day hasn’t happened yet. But I’ve been waking up feeling grateful, first for being well rested, second for my lovely home. Also Ruby seems to be healing well. When I think about how much joy she bring to my life, it brings tears… of joy.”

On January 11: “David Bowie died early this morning. While I am deeply shocked and sad, I choose to acknowledge and be grateful that I lived at the same time as he did. He was a gift.”

On January 18: “It snowed overnight and I woke up to beautiful, still clean white snow. Feeling grateful for this serene winter beauty, seasons that I missed for so long. Also, today is MLK, Jr. Day. How lucky are we to have had him in our period of history.”

Two days later: “This morning’s sunrise was brilliant. I am so grateful to have this wonderful home office that faces east. I get to see the sun rise every day!!”

On February 1, I wrote a draft of this blogpost… and that night I learned that my father was in the hospital. He passed away a few days later.

When I returned home from California, it took me a while to write another gratitude note, even though I did feel grateful for many things… like the fact that my father didn’t feel any pain, that he wasn’t in the hospital for a long time, that he was surrounded by his children, and that he had lived such an active, independent life up until the end.

I was also grateful that my siblings and I got along so well, despite the pressure of incredibly difficult decisions and living together for a week. That – and the fact that my father still had all his own teeth at 86 – was something that even the nurses were impressed with.

When my late husband died, I was so angry, disappointed, confused and upset it took me months, if not years, to feel grateful about anything. This time, I could see the positives.

Two days ago, I wrote this: “It’s been a ROUGH couple of weeks, but also much to be grateful for. Family. Friends. An amazing father. New opportunities. And a graceful exit.”

It feels like gratitude grows on itself, like the more you notice, acknowledge and feel it, the more things you feel grateful for. I love my gratitude jar, and I’m going to keep filling it up, even when times are tough.

It’s been a crazy busy fall/winter, partly because of Ruby’s injury and the fundraising effort for her surgery (thank you to those of you who donated!!). So, I’m a little late with this traditional end-of-year post, but better late than never.

Looking back… 2015 was a difficult year, but also a rewarding one. It was my first full year living in New York, and my first year working full-time as a freelance writer. Then, at the end of the year, I found myself facing several large expenses, including Ruby’s surgery and getting my car repaired after colliding with a deer in October. But I managed to overcome.

In 2015, I…

– Survived winter! No small feat after living 19 years in Los Angeles.

– Met a lot of people by being outgoing and getting a part-time job at a popular farm-to-table cafe, something I wrote about in this post. I feel very fortunate to have made a few solid friends here.

– Was invited back to Los Angeles as a guest panelist on Death and Loss: Women Writing Out Loud workshop at BinderCon, a symposium for women writers.

– Was interviewed about my experience as a newlywed widow by Nancy Redd on HuffPost Live.

– Made over 50% of my income from freelance writing and editing.

– Applied and was accepted to several professional groups: The American Society of Journalists and Authors, Gotham Ghostwriters, The Director’s List, and Film Fatales (two groups for women directors).

– Took a writing workshop with Linda Schreyer called Slipper Camp that prompted me to write several essays (highly recommend to anyone wanting to jumpstart their writing).

– Saw my name in print four times in Upstate House Magazine.

– Founded WriteUP New York, a collective of freelance writers living in upstate New York (email me or find us on Facebook if you’re interested in joining!).

– Took a Branded Content writing workshop with the incredible David Hochman and wrote four branded content articles that will publish on Huffington Post in 2016.

– Reported my first same-day story, about a local town that just overturned its ban on alcohol. What a thrill to report, write, file and get published within 24 hours!

– Became one with my motorcycle with over 1000 miles of riding through gorgeous upstate New York.

But the really big news is that at the end of 2015, I got a new part-time job.

I am the new Visual Arts Director of Greene County Council on the Arts (more on that later). In this job, I’m responsible for the visual arts program and gallery at the arts council, which is located in Catskill, across the river from Hudson, NY. It’s a great opportunity for me to use all of my skills in one place, as well as to meet more people in the community, especially creative people. It’s also a steady source of income that will be very helpful as I continue to build my freelance career.

In anticipation of how busy I’m about to be, I decided to cut my hair into a style that requires zero maintenance. 🙂

Looking forward, in 2016, I plan to:

– Kick ass in my new job.

– Renew my passport and travel abroad again, even if it’s to Canada (only a six hour-drive away).